


Direct Current

by entanglednow



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The paperwork is infuriatingly immune to Charles's particular brand of persuasion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Direct Current

The paperwork is infuriatingly immune to Charles's particular brand of persuasion. Convincing it that it doesn't, in fact, exist is a losing battle. Though there's something to be said for man's sheer determination, that for a fraction of a second he considers trying. Unfortunately he knows the difference between optimism and delusion. No, the words continue to stare up at him, from the non-living medium of paper, and demand his attention.

"You're not getting it," Charles tells them, and rubs at an ache behind his right eye. Where concentration, irritation, and a lack of good light has caused a spike to form. A spike which is currently rolling around, finding new and interesting parts of his brain to impale, and destroy. Convincing his headache that it doesn't exist might live in the realms of possibility. The absolute worst case scenario is that he ends up giving himself a brain embolism trying.

Tempting nonetheless.

He'd be interested to know if his headaches are measurably worse than the non-telepathic members of society. He's of the miserable and unhappy opinion that they are, since his brain is working harder, or at least working _differently_ , but he's horribly biased. He could never hope to be objective under the circumstances.

He leans back in his chair, putting distance between himself and his work. Even if it's only physical, brain still forced to unhappily review what he's been reading, with little enthusiasm, for the last hour. Which seems like an unfair sort of punishment. But minds tended to think whether you were paying attention or not, and focus is difficult to hold on to when your brain is waging war on your skull. Even for him. No, especially for him.

The drifting nearness of Erik comes as more than a relief. It also saves him from having to go looking for him. Though ' _looking_ ' where Charles is concerned is not so much about vision, as direction and distance. Something akin to following the warmth of a fire to its source.

Even if he hadn't felt - heard - him coming. There are few things that could distract him away from the difference between a room which has Erik in it, and a room that does not. For someone he's known for so little time, someone who seems so stubbornly determined to remain at a distance, Erik has found spaces to occupy which Charles hadn't even realised were empty. Charles is still not entirely sure if Erik bends the world around him, or if the world bends to accommodate Erik. Fanciful, perhaps, but a thought his mind keeps coming back to.

He listens to the door open, and then shut, Erik's shoes move across the carpet until Charles can feel him, physically, where he's pressure and warmth against the back of his chair. There's a very long pause. A vibrating edge of purpose, intent, the weight of a decision as yet unmade. Charles doesn't push against it. Though he does tip his head back, puts a foot down to move his chair round to face him.

He's halfway through turning, when Erik's hands settle on his shoulders, and twist him back to face the desk.

A second later there are fingers against the side of his head, very carefully finding the delicate skin over his temples and -

 _Oh._

The spike stops rolling.

There's movement, slow circular motions, that un-knot the solid ball of pain he'd been fighting for almost an hour. Irritation melting into broken pieces of surprise and relief. He suspects - it's the only explanation really - that he's been broadcasting his discomfort, when that was never his intention. More than a little worrying that he hadn't noticed. Definitely the sort of thing he should apologise for, but all he can do is sigh under the slow rotation. His eyes fall shut without his consent, vision gone in favour of sensation.

He tries not to read anything. It's hard not to, when everything is so close, contact making everything sharp and clear. But when he slips he finds Erik very carefully concentrating on nothing at all, concentrating though not always succeeding. Thoughts like insects occasionally drifting past, with a low buzz, and a smear of imagery.

Underneath that, like a low, mental undertow, there's an uncertainty, as if he might have overstepped the bounds of their friendship. Of propriety. _Intimacy?_ Sometimes it's hard to turn emotions - doubts, uncertainties - into words. But Erik does not, as a rule, reach out, at least not physically.

Erik thinks he should stop.

 _Don't you dare._

There's a brief pause, just long enough for amusement and something else, surprise at the invitation, strong enough that it doesn't fade straight away. Erik's fingers start moving again, slightly harder than before, slow circles that Charles can feel all the way through his head.

He makes a noise which is, perhaps, inappropriate for his office in the middle of the day.

Doesn't care in the slightest.

Erik's fingers are cold, like he's been outside, or, more likely, wandering the mansion absently touching everything metallic he can find. Checking the focal points of a map, or planning for an attack, most likely both. Charles could look, and see where he's been, but there's something to be said for the hazy space between thoughts, between the search for thoughts. For letting the waves wash up to the shore, before he knows where they're headed.

The cold is very pleasant though. It brings with it a certain creeping numbness, that leeches inside Charles's head, and does its best to crack his headache into pieces. A variation, if you will, on Erik's brute force approach to things. The sensation slows, movement stopping, and Charles has to pull himself away from his first instinct, which is to _make_ it continue. The fingers don't leave though. They drag slowly back through his hair, lifting it, and sliding underneath, and it may possibly be the most incredible thing he's ever experienced. He has to stop his head from tipping back in the chair, and trying to follow Erik's fingers. Instead they find the weight of his hair at the back, and push up, fingers continuing their movement underneath, and it's like someone suddenly stole the motor controls for his neck, because that really is very, very nice indeed. Indulgent and probably undeserved, but complete and utter bliss.

There's a low rumble in his chest which is - yes - that's definitely coming out as noise. Probably embarrassing, which he shall worry about at some point when his brain isn't melting like very, very good chocolate.

There's a quiet vibration of laughter, which isn't his. Colourful and familiar nonetheless. He can _feel_ the smile on Erik's face. His thoughts are apparently not so much being broadcast then, as dripping out like treacle, dangerous, probably - no, probably not.

His hair is going to be an unsightly mess, pushed into permanent discord by Erik's long fingers. But there are thumbs working on the back of his skull, and it's a more than acceptable price to pay. Head rocking slowly back and forth in a way that should be uncomfortable but somehow isn't in the slightest. It feels very much like Erik is scratching an itch in his brain he hadn't even been aware of. His skin is tingling, and his spine has unfortunately turned to liquid. He's leaning into the movement rather more than is probably polite too. Perhaps he is a greedy hedonist after all?

Erik's nails pull slowly across his scalp. Which is a singular sensation. Quite different to the slow, methodical movements that came before. Though certainly not unpleasant.

Charles's breath catches in his throat.

Erik seems to realise - or feel through him, it's difficult to tell with unexpected sensations - what he's done, hands falling out of his hair. Though they can't seem to pull away completely, they come to rest on Charles's shoulder.

 _Thank you._

Charles thinks he may have overdone the gratitude that wound itself around the thought. But his headache is completely gone. The inside of his head feels soft and numb, sensitive...and oddly raw. It's altogether not a fit state to try anything complex in. He reorients his head, opens his eyes. The room's bright and blurry, considerably less offensive than it was before.

Erik's hands are heavy, and still where they've settled. His mind is anything but, crawling and shifting. There's a thought, an idea which keeps snapping to the front, only to be immediately and firmly scattered apart, not always successfully.

Charles could reassure him, he could tell him there is nothing offensive, nothing unwanted about the curiousity he's trying to ruthlessly pull apart. But he can also feel the sharp edges, the unsettled and confused need for _distance_. So he lets Erik keep his quiet, turbulent thoughts. He doesn't ask him to stay, when his hands slide free, without a word.

Charles listens to the quiet sound of the door shutting behind him, and does nothing at all.


End file.
